


If We Could, Would You?

by tiger_in_the_flightdeck



Series: Two Weddings and a Murder [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Holmes is such a desperate cockslut, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Marriage of Convenience, POV Sherlock Holmes, Secret Relationship, Shameless Smut, Top!Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 16:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_in_the_flightdeck/pseuds/tiger_in_the_flightdeck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I would marry you if I could." </p>
<p>I turned to find he had gone to his knees. No. One knee. He knelt in front of me and took my hand. Each of my fingertips were kissed, then he held the palm of my hand to his cheek. "I would, Holmes. I would marry you." He kissed the inside of my wrist as he looked up at me. "A large, lavish wedding, with the seats filled with all of the people you've helped. The men at the yard. The boys."</p>
            </blockquote>





	If We Could, Would You?

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a multi-part story. Each part can be stand alone, but are best read in order.

Watson has asked me to write one of these lurid and personal little tales. I believe he thinks it would be romantic, but in reality, it is simply awkward. I don't know how to write a story, least of all a story that is centered around this subject matter. Do I focus on details, or leave things vague? Am I meant to highlight the emotions, or the physical sensations? Should I try to stay in my own head, or guess what Watson was thinking? I have no idea how he is able to do this.

He is chuckling now. It seems I have a look of panic on my face with my fingers poised above the keys of his typewriter.

*

It was three months before Watson's marriage, that his fiancée came to Baker Street to have a private conference with me. Miss Morstan was a lovely woman, not much older than myself. Intelligent, with the sort of natural intuition that tends to characterize her sex.

When she stepped into our sitting room- Watson was at his club for the afternoon- her large blue eyes took in the chemical equipment I was stooped over at the table in the corner.

"So that's why John smelled of smoke when we met for breakfast." she laughed. Her voice had a slight hint of the outback when she spoke and her laughter wasn't the polite muffled sound of a shy maiden.

I directed her into Watson's chair, and perched up in my own. In the light that came in through the window behind my shoulder, I could see that she was much more relaxed than the first time we had met. Her eyes were bright, and a pink flush tinged her cheeks. My hands began to twitch against the arms of my chair. Miss Morstan's lips were swollen and bruised, and the lace at the neck of her gown was tucked in at one side.

"An eventful breakfast, was it?"

Following my gaze, she looked down at herself and giggled. "No, this was luncheon." She fixed the fall of the lace and took a small compact out of her clutch to check her face. "The waiter was a charming young man." When she winked, I forced the tension to leave my shoulders. "But, breakfast was quite fun as well. John was telling me about the case you had last week. The one with the stuffed ape? He really does need to write more of them down."

"He is in the process of penning the account of your missing treasure." I murmured and took a sip of brandy. "With romantic embellishments, of course. His literary agent has threatened him with bodily harm, if he doesn't include a proper love story. So far it seems wooden and awkward, and I had a slipper thrown at me when I pointed this out."

"You love him, don't you?" The question was abrupt, but expected. She was going to be marrying my Watson, after all. It was reasonable for her to be curious about the true nature of our partnership, which her hand in marriage would be protecting.

As much as I am a Brit, and a proud one at that, there are certain things about my country that I would give anything to change. Laws that make it impossible to love freely have forced so many people to leave and start fresh elsewhere. I don't just mean myself and Watson. A considerable amount of my cases have been centered around the difficulties of divorce. A woman might be trapped in a marriage with a drunkard with a fist, while a man may be forced to care and provide for children of questionable parentage. Miss Morstan had been happy to agree to our offer when she understood that being a married woman would afford her more security and freedom than she had as a spinster.

"I do." I assured her. "And before you ask, yes, he knows that I do. I have never been particularly shy about my feelings towards him, since I learnt that he shared them."

I imagined that this was what it would have been like, gossiping with an elder sister. Speaking in hushed tones over our drinks, we chuckled and chatted about Watson's habits and moods. "Goodness, and don't ever change the position of your dining table if he is the one that put it there. You will find yourself on the receiving end of a lecture about tactics and escape routes and you will be quizzed about it after."

When she laughed, Miss Morstan seemed younger. Her head went back and her whole body quivered in her mirth. Dabbing at her eyes, she shook her head. "He's a wonderful man. It's almost a pity you got to him first, Sherlock." She caught my glare and winked again. "Don't worry. I said almost."

We were about to carry on our conversation when we heard the front door open, and a heavy step fell on the hardwood downstairs. Miss Morstan took a card out of her clutch and slipped it into my breast pocket. "Meet me there tomorrow, at noon." she whispered as Watson came up the stairs.

I'm going to digress from my account, such as it is, for a time and this point in the narrative seems the optimal place to do so.

Watson has never described himself in any great detail, save for when he is insulting himself. He spends no small amount of time highlighting my strange features and turning them into something almost poetic. I have read all of his stories, and I'm aware of his fascination with my eyes and his love of my slender physique and long legs. But he offers next to no insight as to his own personal advantages.

He is not nearly so tall as I am, myself being just under six feet and two inches, though he is taller than most. Five feet and eleven inches; more, if he has done a terrible job of combing his hair. At the time this particular story takes place, his hair was a rich chestnut brown and thick. On humid days, or after he has had a bath, it tends to curl around the ends and sometimes gets in his left eye if he doesn't keep it trimmed. It is normally swept back or held in place by his hat and there are few pleasures greater than running my fingers through it.

When we first met, he was thin from illness and darkly tanned. His physical recovery was a slow one, and often during that first year, he needed frequent rests to keep from pitching over. As soon as he was mended, however, he put his weight back on. The colour began to fade from his skin as he rebuilt his muscles. Not a week passed that he didn't visit his club at least once to resume his training.

The man that entered the sitting room that afternoon was in peak health. His shoulders were wonderfully broad as he had returned to his rugby games. Many of my afternoons were spent watching him tear up and down a field, tossing larger, younger men over his shoulders as he defended the other players. That those afternoons ended with me being pleasantly sore and sated was a happy coincidence. And if we often needed to share a bath to clean mud and grass stains and bodily fluids from our skin, who was I to complain?

I am digressing from my digression.

His jaw was strong and square, and prone to bristle if he didn't shave daily. He wore a neatly trimmed moustache which was soft and tickled wonderfully when he was kissing my skin. I may have a penchant for facial hair.

When Watson came into the room, he looked from his fiancée to me and back again before shedding his coat. "I should be very worried right now, shouldn't I?" he said with a laugh. His hair was still damp around the ends, telling me that he had stopped at one of our bath houses on his way home from the club

"Oh, definitely," Mary and I chimed together, and we shared a smile.

"Don't do that, it's unsettling." Watson poured himself a drink, and I watched through my lashes as he sipped it slowly, rather than draining it in one gulp. A relaxed Watson, then. He moved to rest his hip on the arm of my chair, and lightly touched the back of my head as he chatted with Mary. It seemed that over luncheon they had gotten into an argument over floral arrangements, and apparently it wasn't the first time they had done so. It was good natured, and they were chuckling together while Watson caressed his fingers through my hair. After insisting for the third time that red roses would clash terribly with both the table runners and the place settings, he let out a long suffering sigh.

Mary shook her head and laughed, offering me a grin. "Just be glad that you can't marry him, dear."

The jovial mood in the room iced over. Watson's fingers stilled in my hair, and I stared down at my fingers clasped in my lap.

"Oh. Oh, John, Sherlock, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

Despite her best attempts to bring us back around to the laughing and joking conversation we had been having, Mary gave up after an hour, and took herself away. When she gave my cheek a kiss goodbye, she tapped the card that was in my breast pocket to remind me of it.

After Watson returned from taking her down to fetch a cab, he poured himself a brandy which he drained quickly. We sat staring moodily into the fire, Watson nursing another drink, while my fingers relived the motions of pushing the plunger down on a syringe over and over. I had promised my love that I would avoid drugs. For his sake, I forced myself to dispose of all of my hypodermics, and avoided the places where I purchased my cocaine. The marks on my arms faded, but never completely vanished. Nor did the need for the feel of a sharp point piercing my skin.

*

"I would marry you if I could."

We were undressing for bed, having retired early after picking over a cold supper. The bedroom just off the sitting room which had been mine, was now used to store most of my clothing and my disguises. The bed had not been slept in in years. When we became lovers, it seemed smarter to move into the bedroom on the top floor, where it was quieter, and we were further away from our housekeeper and her rooms.

Watson stepped behind me, his arms looping around my waist to finish undoing the buttons on my shirt after I had frozen. After it was drawn down my arms, I felt him move away and heard the brush of cloth on skin, telling me that he had removed his own shirt and vest.

I turned to find he had gone to his knees. No. _One_ knee. He knelt in front of me and took my hand. Each of my fingertips were kissed, then he held the palm of my hand to his cheek. "I would, Holmes. I would marry you." He kissed the inside of my wrist as he looked up at me. "A large, lavish wedding, with the seats filled with all of the people you've helped. The men at the yard. The boys."

"Stamford..." I put in.

"Aye, Stamford. He'll sit at the head table, in a place of honour." His teeth flashed in a quick grin.

"And your orderly. Murray. He ensured you survived. He sent you home to me. Murray will sit beside Stamford."

Reaching past me, Watson rummaged through the little dish that sat on the bureau, which held all of my jewellery. Some of it was for costumes, but most of it was purchased with an odd sort of magpie desire to see metal flashing at my fingers and wrists. With a triumphant smirk, he pulled out my favourite ring, a dark silver band with a cluster of amethyst.

It was silly. Just play acting, but when Watson held up the ring, my fingers were shaking. My hand covered my mouth.

"I'm having a wedding, Holmes. But it won't be a marriage. It could never be. It is what I want with you. I want to fuss and argue about throw rugs, and put away money for retirement. To go on holidays with you. If we could, would you marry me?"

I have it all committed to memory. Every detail. I may not always recall his favourite wine, or which days he goes without shaving, but the important things will never be removed from the little attic of my mind.

I had nodded, and the ring was slipped onto my finger.  Between one breath and the next I had Watson shoved to the floor by his shoulders, following him with my lips. I'm sure we shook the walls with the force of our landing, but my entire focus was on Watson. I straddled his thighs and continued to kiss him.

His hands are strong. With very little effort he was able to hold me up and roll us both over all while keeping my legs wrapped around him. There was a sharp sting as his teeth closed on my collarbone, and I dragged my nails down his back to leave long scored marks. Pinned between him and the floor, I sought out the ragged scar a few inches above his heart, and laved my tongue over it. It earned me the delicious sound of a shaking moan and a hand in my hair, tugging it back to expose my throat. He was trying to be careful about it, but he still sucked a love mark just below my ear. My toes curled in the air and I dug my heels into his firm backside.

Watson pushed himself up onto his knees with a small grunt, and worked open the buttons on my trousers before tugging them off and away. For myself, I wasted no time in sitting up and pulling his down.

His sex is wonderfully thick, jutting nearly straight up towards his navel. The length and curve of it is perfect for him taking me while we are facing one another. It thrusts into me, filling me completely, and angling to torment my prostate gland. It's not uncommon for me to spend without him laying a hand on me. My own is longer, but much more slender, and I rarely used it to take pleasure in another. I do not enjoy penetrating others. My inverted nature is that of the _cinaedus_ , always eager to submit myself to my dominant other half. Watson was everything I had ever needed in a partner.

He tangled his fingers into the hair at the back of my head and guided me down to press my lips to the base of his cockstand. After his time at the bath house, he was still sweet scented and clean tasting. I moved in lower and closed my mouth around one of Watson's sensitive orbs, suckling carefully. His nails scraped along my scalp in encouragement.

Cupping my cheek, Watson directed me up onto our bed where I scrambled to settle down on the cushions. While he was fetching the bottle of oil that he kept hidden in his supply bag, I tucked a pillow under my hips and lifted my knees until I could reach in between my thighs. The rim of my hole is puckered and soft from liberal coatings of oil. The muscles beyond are tight enough to hold Watson close, but as for the very entrance, I was able to press a finger into myself with no more lubrication than saliva.

That was the sight on display for Watson when he turned back round, oil bottle in hand. My cheeks warmed when his breath hitched in his throat and he swore. Feet dangling in the air, I flexed my toes once again and twisted my finger.

"Eager wee thing, aren't you, my love?" he smirked as he climbed onto the bed as well, holding my knees apart to get a better look at what I was doing. "Amazing," his deep voice roughened and took on the Scotch burr that years of London schooling could do nothing to completely erase. The rich scent of the oil filled the room while Watson worked the stopper free of the bottle, and dribbled some onto his fingers. When he pressed one into me alongside my own, I cried out, and my spine bowed off of the mattress.

Preparation was short work, soon enough he had two fingers stretching me open, while my own slid in and out. The effect was to leave me almost desperate, until I gave in and reached out with my free hand to grip him by the shaft. Wet and slick, I darted my thumb around the head for a moment before drawing him closer, trying to guide him against my entrance. Watson laughed and sidled up to me. He crossed my ankles and held them in one hand, pushing them towards my chest to better expose me to him. It made my breathing come faster, more shallow. He poured more oil directly between the cheeks of my arse and thrust between them a time or two to coat himself.

The initial penetration was almost overwhelming. A pressure and burn that radiated up from my tailbone that quickly faded into a gentle lingering warmth. My prick didn't flag in the least as Watson bore down on me, thrusting with care until I was cradled in the scoop of his hips. He let go of my ankles and braced my feet on his chest, caressing my thighs and over my stomach while he let me get used to the intrusion.

" _Je t'aime, je t'aime_." I twisted my hands in the sheets and arched up. "I love you, my Watson." Letting go of the sheets, I curled my hands behind my thighs, holding my legs up and apart to give him more room to thrust.

Soon his hips were moving hard, a rough piston rhythm that jolted me along the mattress and made the headboard thump the wall. As always, each deep thrust had him gliding over my prostate until my cock began to bounce against my stomach. To try to urge him along, I clenched and flexed my muscles, milking him with my body.

He shouted and his head went back. Watson grabbed me by the thighs and tugged me closer to bury himself to the root with a low groan. Licking his palm, he took a hold of my shaft, stroking it in time to our movements.

I called his name, and pleaded with him to go harder. I was scraping lines down the backs of my thighs while the tight ball of warmth low in my belly began to grow and spread. It started in my toes, sending tremors down my legs. Soon my bollocks were drawing snug against my body and I felt tears prickle at the corners of my eyes. Blindly, I groped for Watson and pulled him down to kiss me. Trapped between us, my cock jumped and rutted into his stomach and I spilled my seed across his chest, shooting far enough to spatter across my chin and throat.

The moment my orgasm began, the inexplicable tears fell over my temples and into my hair. Watson held me through it all, whispering praise and love into my ear. Infinitely patient and tender, he waited until I finished shaking before he held himself up to take his own pleasure. His thrusts became shallow, little more than rocking into me while holding my eyes with his own. When his orgasm built, he slipped a hand under me to lift my hips. He snapped in, sliding up to his base one final time, and held us there and kissed me. I could feel the hot thickness of his semen spill into me for what felt like an impossibly long time.

Rather than collapsing limply onto me, Watson kept himself up on shaking arms until he was soft enough to withdraw and move to my side. From the side table, he plucked up a small napkin to mop up the mess, then slipped it between my arse cheeks. Carefully he wiped me clean before tossing it in the direction of our laundry hamper.

I was still trembling, and Watson covered me with the blankets while he rose and went to wash himself off at the basin on the vanity. As he cleaned, he kept me in view, grinning at me from time to time. He tugged on one of his nightshirts, and picked one out for me. I was weak and limp as a rag, so he helped me to sit up, and guided my arms into the sleeves. The lamp was blown out, and the bottle of oil returned to its place. I found myself thoroughly kissed, and my hair combed into place before he got back into bed beside me.

Against my ear, Watson whispered his love for me, and hummed a soothing tune to guide me to sleep.

*

A band of sunlight crossed my eyes, waking me in the morning. Just like Watson can roll out of bed, ready to follow me on cases, clients coming at all hours over the years had conditioned me to come fully awake as soon as my eyes opened. Beside me, Watson was on his back with an arm flung carelessly above his head and the other resting across his broad chest. His lips were slack in his sleep and his face was turned to me. The golden strip of light fell over his mouth in invitation.

Our bottle of oil still had some left in it, so I coated my fingers, reaching under the hem of my nightshirt to lazily toy myself back open. By the time I had two fingers moving and scissoring apart, I leaned in and sucked his earlobe between my lips until I heard his breath hitch. Propped up on my elbow I moved from his ear to his lips.

Even while he was curling his hand behind my head, Watson groaned in disgust. "You've not brushed your teeth." he complained before nipping at me and bravely pressing his tongue into my mouth.

Carefully, I withdrew my fingers and pushed the hem of his nightshirt up and took his prick in my mouth, suckling until his was hard as my own. When I hiked my own shirt up around my waist and climbed on, Watson settled back on his pillow with his arms above his head. He gave me a lazy, sleepy smile before biting his lip as I lowered myself onto him.

It was slow. I braced my hands on his chest and leaned over to kiss him, occasionally stilling completely just to let him hold me. Our orgasms came moments apart, and were drawn out, just a few meagre drops of my seed splashing from the tip. There wasn’t enough force behind it to make the drops reach much further than Watson's ribs. All the same, he dragged his fingers through it and sucked them clean.

Rocking forward I sagged against his chest, and could feel his semen trickle from my hole and down the cleft. Watson held and kissed me, stroking my back. After a time he stretched and yawned. "Have you any plans today, my love?"

I sat up, and reached behind myself to swipe the seed away with the hem of my nightshirt. "Mm, yes. I'm off to conspire with your fiancée for the day."

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Holmes makes a reference to being a Cinaedus. It's basically (loosely) Latin for Insatiable bottom cockslut...


End file.
